


Self-sufficient

by softiejace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awesome Molly, BAMF Molly Hooper, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluffy Ending, Healing, Hoopkins, John is a Saint, Light Angst, POV Molly Hooper, Personal Growth, Self-Acceptance, Self-Doubt, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, but implied hoopkins in the epilogue :), implied lesbian!molly, molly is a strong woman, molly is rosie's godmother, mostly molly-centric not relationship-centric, sapphic molly hooper, self care and self sufficiency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:08:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9778409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softiejace/pseuds/softiejace
Summary: Excerpt:She’s not grieving for what she couldn’t have. Not grieving for him.She’s grieving for herself, for all the time that she wasted hoping. All of herself that she gave, offered, sacrificed really - to someone who would never give back to her.Not his fault, but not hers either.She laughs, and then she starts crying.“I’ve really been reckless with myself, haven’t I?”





	1. Prologue: 3 Minutes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because the way Molly was treated by the show and its writers in season 4 has been nothing short of heart-breaking and misogynistic. I couldn't live with the ending or Moffat's suggestion that she "probably went and shagged someone", so I wrote how I think she got over it.  
> Molly is a wonderful, strong, resilient woman, and I tried to give her a bit of the development she deserves.

-

It takes a phone call of three minutes to wreck Molly Hooper's world.

-


	2. 3 Weeks

-

It takes three weeks to rebuild it.

-

An hour passes from the phone call. A night. 

Lestrade passes her in the hall of Bart’s the next day and says, “Have you heard of Sherlock? Gave us quite a shock –“

The file she’s carrying slips from her grip and papers spill across the floor.

“I have,” she says to the floor, and pretends that her voice does not shake. “Sufficiently.”

When he hunkers down to pick them up for her – damn his helpfulness – she waves him off. “Would you mind? I can handle it, just let me –“

He doesn’t know the reason for her upset. He can’t. How would he? Why would _he_ have told him –

She doubts _he_ even grasps the whole weight of it.

“We’re all a bit out of our depth,” Lestrade says.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Molly says. “Sorry. Busy day.”

She straightens up, file pressed against her chest. 

Lestrade blinks at her. “Right. I’ll ... see you around then?”

She nods and pushes past him.

-

A week. 

There are two messages on her answer machine.

“Molly, it’s John. I know you probably don’t want to talk to him after ... I just want to let you know that – he’s very sorry. He never meant for this, you know he’d never say – wow, that probably doesn’t help. Umm. Yeah, no, this can’t be helpful. I’m – sorry, Molly. Just. You know. I hope – we hope you’re alright. Err. Rosie says Hi. Well. See you sometime?”

“This is Sher-“

She deletes them both.

-

She can’t bear silence, so she moves the TV into the bathroom. 

She doesn’t mind what she’s watching.

She only zaps away from romance.

She can’t bear the words.

-

When the TV goes back to the living room, the radio becomes her steady companion.

She listens to Muse as she scrubs herself in the bath. 

She listens to the news as she chops onions for dinner, grateful for an excuse to cry.

She listens to podcasts and comedians and interviews.

Imagines she’s living other lives.

-

“I’m not lonely.” She says to the cat in front of her kitchen window.

It’s been sat there on the roof every night for three days now. 

“You don’t need to sit there and stare at me like I’m the most pathetic thing you’ve ever seen.”

The cat blinks slowly at her.

She’s never let it in, it probably belongs to someone.

“Everyone belongs to someone, don’t they?” she asks.

Her voice cracks and she bites down on her lip angrily. 

The cat stays.

“Fine!” Molly says. “Fine. Come in then.”

She twists the handle and pulls the window open roughly.

The cat doesn’t flinch. It blinks again lazily, then sniffs, and jumps down onto the counter.

Molly sniffles, too.

The cat licks a bit of cream off her fingertip.

“I’m Molly,” Molly says.

“Meow,” says the cat.

She keeps it.

-

She keeps herself busy at work.

It helps, for a while, but she flinches every time someone says her name.

She doesn’t know what she’s going to do when he comes in. And he will, eventually, inevitably.

On the night of the 9th day, she calls in from home, a glass of cheap wine in her hand, half drained.

“I’d like to take a couple of days off. Two weeks, maybe. - No, I’m not ill, it’s just – I’d like to focus on my – my independent work for a bit. If that’s possible... Yes, that would be perfect. Thanks a lot.”

Lestrade texts her two days later for a case, and she declines with the same excuse. 

Then someone calls, and she makes the mistake of picking up without checking who it is.

“Molly, are you alright?”

She freezes up. “Fine. What do you want, John?”

Her voice sounds hard when she talks to him – it’s not _his_ fault, not really, but everything about him _reminds_ her...

“Nothing. Just – to talk to you. Haven’t heard from you since... Well, I’m worried. We’re –“

“Don’t,” Molly says, and he shuts up.

“I can’t take care of Rosie for a while,” she says after a beat. “I’m off work. On holiday.”

“Oh. That’s. That’s good. I mean. That’s fine. We’re not in need of a babysitter currently, and if we are, Mrs Hudson is just downstairs, so... Where are you headed? Going  
somewhere sunny?”

Molly leans back, pressing her back straight against the wall. When she closes her eyes, she remembers pencil marks on the walls of her childhood home. Revelling in the feeling of outgrowing her brother...

“Not exactly. - I might go see my family.”

“You don’t think you need – well. To talk to someone? Maybe?“

She gasps, tearing her eyes open.

“No, I really don’t think I need therapy, John.” 

Her voice is shaking. _How dare he._

“It can help, really, trust me, sometimes you just –“

“And do you know what else I really don’t need? Advice from you, John Watson! Advice from any man, in fact! Why do you all think you’re so clever, think you can tell us what we want, what we need to sort our lives out – I’m so sick of it –“

He doesn’t try to defend himself.

She knows, deep inside, that he’s probably better than she gives him credit for.

“Alright,” he says. 

She breathes heavily.

The cat comes in from the bedroom and glares at her, roused by her shouting.

“Alright,” John repeats. “You’re right. Of course. I shouldn’t – I should probably – well. – Give us a ring when you get back. Or a text. – Have a good holiday, Molly. Really, you deserve it.”

“I do, and I don’t need you telling me that,” she says, but he’s already hung up.

The cat approaches her and rubs its head against her calf.

She leans down to scratch behind its ears.

“We both deserve some affection, huh?”

She doesn’t say _we’re in need of_. She’s doesn’t want to be in need of anything only others can give to her. 

-

“The villagers are self-sufficient. To this day, they maintain a life almost entirely detached from the rest of the world, choosing to stay among their community. Nature provides them with all they need to survive...”

The cat sinks its claws gently into her legs and Molly sinks deeper into the pillows she’s stacked up on the couch.

“I’m like them,” Molly says, drowsy from listening to the dreary voice of the narrator. “Don’t need anyone, you know. Fine on my own.”

The cat purrs.

Molly runs one hand through its fur and the other through her own hair.

“Self-sufficient,” she murmurs.

Her face goes slack against the pillows.

The documentary goes on to tell the story of one villager falling in love with a visitor and leaving the village behind, but Molly’s already quietly snoring at this point. The cat stretches and abandons its seat between her legs.

On its way to the kitchen, it steps on the TV remote and the documentary narrator is cut off mid-word.

Molly sleeps.

-

She does go to visit her family for the weekend.

“You’ve had your hair cut,” is the first thing her mother says, with her lips pursed in disapproval.

She has. It’s chin-length now, the strands curling slightly in on themselves. 

“I think it looks good,” she says with her chin raised.

Her mother regards her for a moment, then invites her in.

At dinner, her brother demands to know why she’s on holiday. 

“Got a new boyfriend?” He's smirking.

“You said you wanted to focus on yourself,” her dad cuts in. “Does that mean you’re finally working to purchase that PhD you’ve always wanted?”

Why does everyone seem to know what she wants?

“Can’t a woman take some time off for herself?”

They look at her like she’s from Mars.

“Sure, honey. We’re just worried about you,” her mum says gently after a moment, and reaches for her hand.

Molly draws it back. “Well, I’m fine, thank you.”

She leaves the next day.

The cat probably misses her.

-

She has to change trains on the way back and takes the time to stroll through an ASDA at the station. Buys a coffee-to-go and a paper. There’s a display of CDs on sale next to the cash register.

“Yoga Music For Beginners – Connect With Your Inner Self.”

“Get a Grip on Your Life – 5 Minute Lectures for Every Day.”

“Baking Made Easy – Traditional to Vegan.”

She grabs a copy of the last one.

-

The cat sits on the counter next to her when she rolls out the dough.

“I’m terrible at baking,” she says warningly. 

“Well, it’s not like you’d eat it anyway, huh?”

She’ll have cake for days.

Cake for dinner and as a midnight snack and for breakfast.

It tastes better than expected.

-

She relapses, of course.

Starts crying in the shower and can’t blame it on shampoo running into her eyes.

But she stops being angry at herself.

“It’s okay,” she says, trembling, as she wipes her face with wet fingers. “I’m not. But it’s okay. I will be.”

She wraps herself in a towel and takes time to dry off and rub lotion into her skin.

Every firm stroke of her hand says, “I’m worth it.” 

She repeats it out loud. “I am worth it.”

The mirror is still fogged, so she writes it too.

 _Worthy_ , in big wonky letters.

And she recovers, bit by bit.

-

It hits her very suddenly one day.

A revelation that makes her gasp and drop the tea towel she uses to protect herself from the oven heat. 

The baking tin grazes her skin and she drops it, too, laughing as she holds her hand under the stream of icy water from the sink.

She’s not grieving what she couldn’t have. Not grieving for him.

She’s grieving for herself, for all the time that she wasted hoping. All of herself that she gave, offered, sacrificed really - to someone who would never give back to her.

Not his fault, but not hers either. 

She laughs, and then she starts crying.

“I’ve really been reckless with myself, haven’t I?” she says through sobs. Picks up the tea towel and wraps it gently around her hand. The burn stings, she’ll have to put ointment on it later. 

“Should have taken better care,” she says, firmly. “Well, it’s too late now – that’s in the past. What’s left is tending to my wounds so they don’t leave permanent scars.”

The baking tin stays forgotten on the floor. 

Only the cat nibbles on the edge of it.

-

She doesn’t read the self-help books from TV adverts.

“Isn’t that hysterical? That they’re trying to sell you books on how to help yourself?” 

The cat blinks at her as she pulls off her blouse and on an old, worn-out jumper. It fits a bit more snug than she remembered.

“Look at me,” she says. “Gained weight from all those baked goods.”

The cat joins her in front of the mirror.

Her cheeks are fuller, her wrists less tender. 

“Looking good, the two of us,” Molly says softly. 

She smiles at her image, then starts to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Admiring herself in her pyjamas and ugliest jumper, hair undone and still wet.

She grows breathless with laughter, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

The cat nudges her foot. 

“I’m fine, don’t you worry,” she gasps, laughs. Nudges back.

The cat stalks off to the kitchen, and Molly will follow in a minute.

For now, she leans closer to the mirror and breathes out.

Drags her finger across the steamy surface.

_I am allowed to feel._

And _I am enough._

-

She starts to really believe it, too.

-


	3. Epilogue: 3 Seconds

-

It takes Stella Hopkins three seconds to shake Molly's tenderly rebuilt world.

-

She’s back in Bart’s morgue.

Stands in the doorway and takes a deep breath. 

It smells like it always does – dead people. She grins.

“Ah! Molly! You’re back.”

She turns around; Lestrade hurries towards her, a smile on his face. She nods at him.

“Hi. Sorry I abandoned you guys,” she says. “But I’m here now if you need me! How about that case?”

“Solved it!” he grins. “Well, not by myself. We’ve had an addition to our team. I’m sure you’ll meet her soon enough, she should be bustling about somewhere here. Brilliant, that girl. Been meaning to ask her out. - Anyway, I should be off! See you around, Molly!”

She chuckles at his enthusiasm. Sometimes he reminds her uncannily of a golden retriever.

There’s a bit of work waiting for her in the mortuary. People haven’t stopped dying just because Molly Hooper has been dealing with an existential crisis.

As she sets out to examine one of the newly arrived corpses, she catches an unexpected whiff of perfume.

She looks up, towards the door, and freezes. Her cheeks grow hot, her hands sweaty, and her heart skips a beat. It’s really very cliché, like she’s suddenly nervous – but not at all in the way she used to be around Sherlock.

The person in the door is decidedly _not_ Sherlock.

“You must be Molly Hooper,” says the newcomer, and Molly nods.

“I’m – yes – hi. Are you - ?”

She doesn’t even know what she’s trying to ask, really. 

“Stella Hopkins. The new D.I. around here.” She laughs – a warm, rich sound. 

And then she’s stood in front of Molly, offering her hand – 

“Whoa, better put that down.”

Molly blushes furiously. She hasn’t noticed she's still holding the scalpel. 

“Yes – I – sorry. It’s nice to meet you, D.I Hopkins. Sorry I’m a bit – out of it. Been off work...”

She’s rambling, why is she rambling? D.I. Hopkins most likely doesn’t care.

They shake hands. Molly’s fingers _tingle._

“So I’ve heard. And please, call me Stella. No need to bother with formalities.”

Stella’s eyes are a deep brown, and they sparkle when she smiles. “People have been missing you around here. There’s this one guy – I forgot his name. Really tall, wears a huge coat, swishes around like a bat – anyway, he praised you to the heavens. Actually said you’d saved his life. Not something you hear every day about a pathologist.”

If Molly didn’t know better, she’d say D.I. Hopkins looks curious. Interested, almost.

_Huh._

“Yes – well – complicated story. Really, we’ve got complicated history in general. Well, not like _history_ history, you know. Um. He isn’t –“

She’s about to stutter herself into hell, but thankfully Hopkins jumps in. “Oh, yes, I’ve noticed. He’s got a boyfriend, doesn’t he?”

Molly blinks. Either she’s really out of the loop in terms of recent developments, or Hopkins is merely assuming the same old thing about Sherlock and John. Not far-fetched, admittedly. It’s always been hard to tell with those two. Of course, there used to be Mary, but now...

“Sorry, didn’t mean to pry. I just thought it’d be nice not to be the only one around here.”

D.I. Hopkins laughs again, a bit abashed this time, and flicks some invisible speck of dust off her shoulder. She’s wearing a leather jacket and a floral blouse underneath that accentuates her complexion really well. 

Molly takes a sudden breath, realising she’d been holding it, and coughs rather gracelessly. Can her face get any redder?

She wants to ask what Stella means with “the only one”, but then the other woman has begun to speak again.

“Well, I only meant to pop in and say hi. Lestrade wants to meet me somewhere, some kind of emergency from the sound of it –“

“He wants to go on a date with you,” Molly blurts out. Oh my god. Why has she said that? What is she doing?

Hopkins’ eyes grow comically wide. “Oh, he doesn’t actually, does he? Did he say that? Oh, no. Poor Greg. How unfortunate.”

She sounds sorry at first, but then she starts to giggle. It’s decidedly the most delightful sound Molly has ever heard.

She desperately wants to know what’s so funny. Does Stella have a boyfriend? Was that what she meant with not being the only one?

“He’s not a bad guy,” Molly finds herself defending him. 

“I’m sure of it. The problem remains that he’s a guy,” says Stella, and goes to pull her phone out of her pocket as though she hasn’t just made the most unravelling, breath-taking, earth-shattering off-hand comment.

Molly forces herself to breathe.

Okay. Okay.

So she’s a lesbian. That’s fine, right? Nothing to bother Molly.

Why does she feel like it’s important? It shouldn’t be important, it shouldn’t change –

“Here, I’ll give you my number.”

“What?” Molly blurts. She’s entirely aware she’s not reacting normally. Probably not the way she’s supposed to react. 

Chill, Molly. Keep calm. Christ. What is wrong with her?

Stella cocks her head, still looking friendly. “Well, in case you make any interesting finds about that body here on the table. It’s related to a new case. I’ll text you the details?”

Oh. _Oh._

“Sure. Of course.” She hands Stella her phone, watching her type. She’s got beautiful hands. 

She’s got beautiful everything, actually –

Molly blinks. 

“There you go! It’s been super lovely meeting you, Molly. Hope I’ll see you soon, then?”

“Err – yes. I hope so, too. I mean – I’ll call you. Text. Text you. About my body. The body.”

_Fuck._

“Perfect!”

It takes Stella three seconds to complete the shaking of Molly’s world – three seconds to lean in, kiss her cheek, and swoop out of the room.

Molly stumbles back against the table, vaguely aware she’s leaning against a corpse.

Oh. My. God.

What just happened?

-

The basic examination of the corpse takes her longer than usual. Two hours later she’s finally on her way to the lab with some samples she wants to have a closer look at.

She’s very abruptly torn out of her daze by something hugging her around the knees.

Someone.

A small someone.

“Rosie – don’t – come back here! You can’t just hug strangers, that’s not – oh. Molly?”

Molly leans down, shaking a little bit, and returns the child’s hug. “Hello, sweetheart! Have you missed me? I’ve missed you!”

She glances up at John who’s approaching them. He looks cautious at the moment, but she can tell he’s recovered rather well from the mess his last few months have been. 

There’s an air of content, of tender happiness about him that seems new to her.

“Hi.” He says. “Sorry for the assault. Sorry I didn’t recognise you with the hair and everything.”

“There’s no need to apologise,” she says, standing up with Rosie clinging to her and the samples balanced in one hand. “I mean that, you know – I’m okay, really.”

He smiles. “I can tell. You look – happy.”

“So do you.” 

“Daddy!” Rosie squeals, and Molly takes that as her cue to hand her back to John, but instead the little girl squirms until she puts her down.

She doesn’t stay at John’s side, either, but takes off down the corridor on her wobbly little legs.

Molly notices the change in John’s smile before she turns around.

There’s an unfamiliar sight.

“Hi you! Hi. Yes, I’ve missed you, too. Have you been good? Caused any trouble today? That’s my girl.”

Sherlock’s carrying his coat on one arm and Rosie on the other as he starts towards them. He blinks when he sees Molly, eyes wide like he’s not sure how to greet her.

She goes for a smile.

It’s not really that hard with the sight he and Rosie are. 

And the fact that John’s daughter calls him daddy.

“Hello, love.”

Sherlock reaches them, and John reaches up to plant a kiss on his mouth, and Molly silently wonders how it’s possible that she’s only been gone for a couple weeks.

They pull apart self-consciously; Sherlock’s cheeks tinted a bit pink as he inclines his head towards her.

He clears his throat. “Hi, Molly.”

“Hi yourself. – Do you have a minute? I’ve some samples I should like your opinion on.”

She mentally pats her own shoulder for the idea. 

Sherlock looks surprised, but pleasantly so. “Certainly. If John’s alright with waiting –“

They share a look. 

John chuckles. “What else do I ever do, huh? Go, but hurry. I promised Rosie we’d watch the sunset by the Thames.”

“Yes! Sunnet!” The little girl babbles excitedly as Sherlock transfers her to John’s arms.

Sherlock follows Molly down the hall to the lab and silently watches her lay out the samples.

He only speaks when she’s placed one of them under the lens of the microscope.

“So what do we have here?”

“In today, mid-forties. I’m trying to find out if he was ill or poisoned.”

Sherlock hums, turning the lens to get a better look.

Molly steps up to him. “You know, it’s okay,” she says. Casually, softly, as though she’s comforting a child.

He winces slightly, glances at her, then back at the sample. His left hand flexes.

“Oh, but it’s _really not_.” 

His voice is heavy with regret.

“Molly, I am – so sorry,” he says, swallowing. “Really, there’s no way to undo this and I know it must have – you didn’t deserve – I never should have – I didn’t want to –“

There’s a lump in her throat. “Sherlock. I’m okay. Would you listen to me?”

Finally, he looks up at her.

“You’re right,” she says. “Yes, it was – it was terrible, but you mustn’t – you mustn’t blame yourself. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. You had to do it. It doesn’t matter to me exactly why, because I know you, Sherlock – and I’m fine, really. These weeks off have really helped me work through a couple of issues with – well, with myself. I’m okay now. I’m definitely, finally okay. Do you hear me?”

There’s a bit of clatter, and then she finds herself in a fierce hug. 

He’s shaking a bit. Awkwardly, she reaches to pat his back.

He squeezes her tightly for a moment, then releases her.

“Sorry. Had to – I’m. Thank you. For everything. Well. You know.” 

Molly laughs, and the tension evaporates.

They smile at each other for moment.

“Feels good to be back,” Molly says, then. “Looks like some things have changed while I’ve been gone.”

“Certainly.”

“You and John.”

“Oh. Well. Yes,” Sherlock affirms, blushing slightly. 

Sherlock Holmes, blushing! 

_John Watson, you magician._

She can’t help but grin. “I’m happy for you two.”

“Been a long time coming,” he shrugs, but his eyes betray him.

He clears his throat. “I can’t detect any diseases, but there’s something odd about that sample. If you need the results quick, I can take it home and take a closer look, my microscope’s far and away superior to the ones they have here –“

“Oh, yes, that’s fine. I’ll text Stella what you’ve found out already and you can tell me the rest later. Can’t risk you missing that sunset.”

“Brilliant. Alright. Thanks, Molly. I’ll be off then –“ 

Sherlock pockets the sample carefully and swishes past her, slipping his arms into the coat.

Molly smiles to herself as she collects the other samples and goes to clean up behind him.

“Oh – and Molly?”

She looks up; he’s stood in the doorway.

“As made obvious by her fingernails and perfume, Stella Hopkins is –“, he pauses, then decides on a word. “... available.”

And with a wink, he’s gone.

Molly resists the temptation to yell after “SHERLOCK HOLMES!” after him.

She just smiles, shakes her head, and pulls out her phone to send a text. 

-

“Thank you!! Almost done here, just trying to cheer Greg up a bit. LOL. See you soon, dear! xo S”

-

_fin_


End file.
